


This was my hell

by HelloBerrie



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Character Death, Monologue, Other, POV Voldemort (Harry Potter), voldemort - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-29
Updated: 2019-01-29
Packaged: 2019-10-18 13:29:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 895
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17581766
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HelloBerrie/pseuds/HelloBerrie
Summary: This was my hell. I was defeated and humiliated and this was my hell.





	This was my hell

**Author's Note:**

> This is a monologue of Voldemort's on the moment of his death.

The pain was too much. It spread like a fire through what had been my body for three years. Like a holy water running through my veins, infesting every cell that it touched. The pain was too much but it wasn’t all mine. With the liquid fire in my body there was a hammering ache in my head, like a nail right in my forehead, a pressure all around my skull.  
The pain was too much and I couldn’t stop it. He had won. I had lost and he had defeated me at my own game. And now I was powerless, wandless and in so much pain.  
I gasped but the air wouldn’t reach my lungs. I tried to speak. I looked at the boy in front of me, the boy who had defeated me and I tried to cry for help but it was useless. And I was falling, I could see my eyes closing and my strength leaving my borrowed body. I saw the boy standing, falling to the ground. At last he had defeated me. It wasn’t expected. Never once I believed he would defeat me. Not me, not when I had given up so much, not when I had gotten so far. Not after what I had been through. But he had defeated me and I was dying.  
I knew I was dying. The pain was too much. I closed my eyes for the last time, still in shock. Still wondering a useless boy had defeated me, the most powerful wizard. I closed my eyes and tried my last breath. My body was still on fire but I was tired, exhausted. He had drained me of all my power and there was nothing left. Nothing left of the great Lord Voldemort, the wizard who cheated death. The half blood who fooled an entire society of blood purists. The man who had gotten where no one else had dared. The man who split his soul into more time than anyone else.  
Even in my dying pain, it angered me the way I would be remembered. Because I knew very well how I would be remembered. People feared me and hated me enough to know. I would be known as a murderer, a dictator, a monster. My name would go down in horror books and my story would be passed on as the villain of the heroes, the dragon to slay. No one would speak of my genius, of my accomplishments. No one would speak of my rebirth unless in horror and disgust, as if it had been an unnatural and monstrous deed, and not an extraordinary one. I alone had endured years a spirit, a shadow, I had seen thing no one would dare. I had done beautifully horrible things. I had caused so many beautiful screams and they would paint it as a scary bedtime story for little children. It angered me. Even in my burning pain.  
I felt the floor last. After I had closed my eyes and stopped breathing, the last thing I felt was the floor, the stone floor of the Great Hall, broken and dusty, filled with stones and blood. After the pain and the burning water inside my veins, I felt a small pointy stone piercing my temple and for a fraction of a second I wished I had strength enough to throw the stone away. I would have laughed at the absurdity of that thought if I hadn’t been already dead at the time.  
There was no after life for the wicked. But the pain didn’t stop. I still couldn’t open my eyes, I still couldn’t breath and the pain was there. The burning feeling inside my body raged on anew, with more eagerness to consume me whole than before. This was hell, I thought. This was hell.  
And suddenly there was Harry again in front of me with his wand pointed, and Hogwarts as his background. I was again hit by the magic we had both poured into the duel and again I was consumed by so much pain, so much pain and the pain didn’t stop, it wouldn’t stop. This was to be my eternity, this constant pain, this constant defeat. I was again on the floor and the stone was there and I was again dead and alive again, being defeated. I was again looking at the Boy Who Lived, killing me, with little more that my borrowed power and his determination. I was constantly dying and hurting, constantly killed and tortured. And thinking over and over and over and over again that I would only be remembered by my horror. By my path to power. It was torture. More that I could bear and exactly what I would have to bear for how long my punishment lasted.  
The pain was too much. And it grew worse every time I felt it. Worse and worse and worse and the worse it got the angrier I got. The more desperate I got. For I knew, deep in the last bit of my soul that was left, that it wouldn’t stop. I would never escape this hell. I would remain in the excruciating loop of defeat and pain and death and fire and shame. I was once the great Lord Voldemort. I was now dead and nothing. And still the pain was too much.


End file.
